“Could the police do it?” he asks, and while I hear compassion, the worst of memory drowns it out. It isn’t just the police. Where the police go, the media follow, and while there were no lies in what they printed, they were painful to read. Those pieces were speculative, asking questions we were asking ourselves. Unfortunately, what the media speculated about went public.
I don’t want that again.
Slipping my arm free, I turn and look around the room. The books help, with their colorful mix of hard and soft covers. Spines of the latter are cracked multiple times—and there’s another one in the shadow of the angular sofa arm, open and face down, an active one, for sure. Neither of Jack’s parents were readers, and I can’t imagine the wife doing this much reading in the short time she was here, which means the books are his, which is interesting. He never used to read. Teenage rebellion prohibited reading as an art form. If he does it now, I’m guessing loneliness drives him to it. Either that, or maturity, neither of which have to do with the décor here, I decide and refocus on that.
Even aside from the Dante Bowen original, I miss the way this house used to be—miss the big furniture, the colorful pillows, the sense of time and place and purpose. Sure, my condo in New York has the same modern feel as this. But that’s New York, where the chaos of life outside demands simplicity inside. Here on the bluff, it isn’t a matter of chaos and simplicity, but survival. The ocean is beyond our control. The counterpoint is softness, comfort, and warmth.
Feeling a chill, I wander into the hall. The dining room, straight ahead, is more of the cool modern that Jack’s wife apparently liked.
Coming up from behind, Jack is quiet. “She never understood this place. She wanted to make it into somewhere else.”
“Didn’t she know what she was marrying into?”
“She thought she could change it.”
How can you stand it?I want to ask, but stark negativity isn’t my style. Instead, I look back at him in sympathy.
“You think I’m not changeable,” he says.
“It’s not that. You can change. But this isso…” I look around in despair.
“… not me. Is it you?”
He’s asking about my life in New York, and New York is home to me now. But home can be where you spend your time, which isdifferent from where you come from and who you are. Here in Bay Bluff, no. This isn’t me.
I place my hand on the newel post, which is square to our round. Similarly, the banister has a blocky feel, but then, everything about this house is more angular than ours, from those square turrets on down. Still, the memories I have of being in this house aren’t edgy. Despite everything that happened at the end, my memories here are soft and warm, even hot. There were times, when Jack’s parents were away, that he and I spent hours in his room. Making love in a bed was a luxury. Having a mattress beneath us was a far cry from doing it on the beach at night or, worse, in a hidden cave. We couldn’t go to a motel. We didn’t dare. We tried to cushion ourselves with towels, but dry sand was everywhere, wet sand was clammy, and caves? Caves are stone, and stone is unforgiving.
Not Jack’s bed, though. His bed was wonderful.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, so close that I feel the heat of his body. Without conscious intent, I lean back into it. Jack always had a wild smell to him—part attitude, part life at the edge of the sea, part innate essence. It circles me now, right along with his arms at my waist. When he kisses my neck, I think to move away but can’t. The breath that follows the kiss is against my cheek, the voice deep and hoarse. “My old room is the same. I wouldn’t let her touch it. Come up with me.”
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Not even a quickie?”
“Please no, Jack.”
“We could forget about all this, just go with it, just get lost in each other like we used to.”
Slowly, I shake my head.
“When we make love,” he persists, “I forget everything else. Don’t you ever want that again?”
“Yes, but we’re adults now. Sex for the sake of sex doesn’t work for me anymore. It has to mean more. It has to lead somewhere.”
“It could,” he says.
I tell myself to move away. All I do, though, is shake my head again.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t have that and then leave, and my life isn’t here.”
“You’d leave me again?”
It’s such a needy male comment that I want to laugh. Except, nothing here is funny, and answering this remark would take hours. It would ruin the moment, and I’m not ready for that. His hands are stroking my waist now, thumbs teasing. And I’m aching as I haven’t with any other man.
Reaching behind, I circle his neck, then, when I feel his hands full-on me, I whisper his name. And do I ever know where this will lead if I don’t stop soon? Turning in his arms, I grab that gorgeous, mussed, chestnut-colored hair and pull him in for a kiss. Just one. A full kiss, like he used to give.
